


something lonesome about you

by fragmentedreality



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Character Death, Crossover, Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mike and Richie hate each other, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie and Will get on, Will is an angel really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-12-28 15:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragmentedreality/pseuds/fragmentedreality
Summary: The first punch had come quicker than even Richie had expected and he generally wasn’t all that optimistic about these matters.He’d barely even made it through the front door.---When Mike Wheeler had found out that his cousin was coming to live with them he soon resigned himself to the fact that the whole world was against him, as any fifteen year old with a flair for the dramatics would assume.





	1. insanity laughs under pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is the first fic I've posted on here, hope you all enjoy.
> 
> I've played around with the ages a bit so it's set in 1984 and all of them are fifteen, Jonathan, Steve and Nancy ect are all 18, in their last year of school.
> 
> Also you've got to bare with me with some of the dialogue, I'm British so they'll probably unintentionally be a lot of British dialogue in there, sorrryy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t cry because he missed her, he cried because he didn’t.

The doctors had thrown many long words in Richie’s direction that evening, most of which he didn’t understand.

_ Cirrhosis, _ _ ascites, hepatic encephalopathy, variceal bleeding, sepsis. _

_ Sepsis, sepsis, sepsis. _

He tried to comprehend it -_ he really fucking tried, he did - _ yet none of it made sense; his head hurt and his mind screamed but finally, among all the chaos, Richie heard one grave word that did understand. 

_ Dead. _

He didn’t put it quite as bluntly, he used some vague term like _ ‘passed away’ _ or _ ‘no longer with us’ _ with that sugar-sweet voice that adults always use when they think he’s just some weak kid - he’s not, _ he’s really fucking not _ \- but the only word Richie could hear amongst all the noise was _ dead. _It bounced around the room, his mind playing it over and over again in one long miserable loop. 

He wasn’t going to miss holding back her hair as she coughed up blood and bile, he wasn’t going to miss the look of disdain in her eyes every time she regarded him, or the way he could never be good enough for her, the verbal abuse, the broken bottles, he wasn’t going to miss the way she turned a blind eye when his father hit him.

_ He wasn’t going to miss her. _

The guilt that realisation brought made him sick to his stomach.

The doctors soon moved on to other patients, the nurses doted on him a little before doing the same and when the porters came an hour later to take the body down to the morgue, they took pity on him, shoving a cup of hot chocolate in his hand with a sympathetic smile and a few careful words. Taking a sip, he flinched, but continued to let the liquid scold his lips, mouth and all the way down his throat until the cup was empty and his insides _ burned. _

All of them had tried to throw him out, some more politely than others - _ do you mind moving to the waiting area so we can clean this room for the next patient love _ \- but he’d refused, as stubborn as he’d ever been. 

He looked at the blood on the bed and his stomach lurched.

_ It was almost comical _, he thought, how quickly the world could go to shit. Seven hours ago it was a standard Saturday afternoon: his mother drunk out of her mind on the sofa, whiskey bottle captured in a loose grasp, as he watched TV, praying his father would be home later than he was meant to be. 

Now here he was sat, painfully alone, huddled on a chair in the corner of the hospital room in blood stained clothes with enough guilt to weight the world down. For once in his life he didn’t just want his friends around, _ he needed them. _The losers, all six of the bastards, he needed them more than he’d ever needed anyone.

They’d be out having fun right now. He didn’t want to ruin that, didn’t have the heart to tell them.

One of the nurses from earlier, the one with the brown eyes and the kind smile, had returned with a pile of second hand clothes tucked under her left arm, urging him to take a shower. In some sick display of irony she handed him a faded blue T-shirt, two sizes too big and ten years too old, with the words _ ‘I love Derry’ _ printed on the front in peeling black letters.

He actually laughed, cold and bitter.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, handing him a pair of high-school gym shorts, more sweat than they were nylon, “all they had in lost property.” 

They _ definitely _hadn’t been washed but Richie didn’t have the energy to crack a joke or complain, he just accepted them with a curt nod. As she went to leave the room, his legs carried him towards the shower without his brain even thinking.

The water was turned up so high it left his skin red and raw, but he left it that way, strangely soothing. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t _ breathe. _But he could feel that pain, everywhere the water touched him screamed.

Then finally, nearly two hours late, he cried. Silent sobs that made his whole body shake, sat cross-legged on the shower floor.

He didn’t cry because he missed her, he cried because he didn’t.

He should’ve been at Bill’s watching some R-rated movie that Bev had managed to finesse out of the boy from the local rental store, stealing Stan’s popcorn and winding Eddie up for no other reason than his own entertainment. Richie hadn’t even told them he wasn't coming, his mother collapsed then everything happened so fast, his brain could barely keep up. He made a final decision not to tell them today - partly because he didn’t want to ruin their night, mostly because he doubted he even had the energy to get one word out - he’d tell them tomorrow morning once he’d slept.

Someone had returned not twenty minutes later to tell him they’d finally managed to contact his father and he was on his way to collect him; he barely made it to the toilet in time to throw up once she’d left the room. He coughed up all that was in his stomach - a measly few mouthfuls of bile and hot chocolate - wincing at the way it burned his already sore throat.

Richie felt hopeless, utterly fucking defeated.

His Dad had been at work, unavailable, for the entire ordeal; most likely tearing the teeth from the jaw of some poor child while giving them a lecture on how pop rocks are _ not _a suitable breakfast food. Richie had received that speech all too many times himself, it only meant he started eating them on the way to school instead of at the breakfast table.

Wentworth Tozier had found out his wife had died over the phone and, as much as he hated him with every ounce of his being, that’s a fate Richie wouldn’t wish on anyone, not even him.

But it scared him.

He’d blame Richie if the town flooded, he’d blame him if the sun didn’t rise or the moon fell from the sky, so he’d _ certainly _blame him for his mother’s death.

The nausea had made itself at home in the pit of his stomach, much to his frustration, he hadn’t welcomed it but he doubted it would leave any time soon. As he sat in the carpark, perched on the curb near the entrance, he realised that the cool night air was helping less than he’d hoped. 

The feeling only intensified when he heard the unmistakable hum of his father’s BMW sedan round the corner at a questionable speed. He took a deep breath in, holding it momentarily as he braced himself for the inevitable. Not a beating, no that would come later, he was waiting for the fire in his eyes, the venom in his words.

He didn’t get either of those.

He got nothing.

Yet somehow that was _ so _ much worse.

The car pulled to an abrupt stop a few feet in front of him and he scrambled to his feet, pulling the door open with heavy arms. His father didn’t even turn to look at him, Richie studied the tremor in his jaw, the twitch in his left eye, and they way his knuckles turned a steely white with the sheer force with which he clung to the steering wheel.

He counted the few measly blessings he had left that day - he thought God may have finally taken pity on him - because by something that could only be described as a modern miracle, he managed not to throw up for the entirety of that car journey. For that small piece of sympathy, he was eternally grateful.

They pulled into the drive having still not said a word, leaving the tension to hang thick in the air. His father walked up the pathway as he fumbled for his keys, Richie falling into step cautiously behind him. It took his shaking hands a while to find the right one, but eventually he freed the small brass key from the rest of them and twisted the lock.

The first punch had come quicker than even Richie had expected and he generally wasn’t all that optimistic about these matters. 

He’d barely even made it through the front door.

\---

It was the third time that week that Nancy Wheeler had taken the last helping of dessert and Mike was about three-point-seven seconds away from bursting a capillary, “_ YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME, YOU BI-” _

“_ MICHAEL _ ,” his mother chastised, tone suitably horrified as she cut him off, “you do _ not _talk to your sister like that, do you hear me?”

Ted Wheeler looked at his son with an eyebrow raised, challenging him to talk back. Mike stared him dead in the eye momentarily, then moved his gaze back towards his mother before giving in with an exaggerated sigh as he fell back into his seat. He soon resigned himself to the fact that the whole world was against him, as any fifteen year old with a flair for the dramatics would assume.

“_ Shit _,” Nancy cursed quietly, spitting a mouthful pie back into the bowl, “burned my mouth.”

Her mother looked at her disapprovingly, trying to hide the slight smile that ghosted her lips. Mike made no such similar effort, snorting so loudly into his orange juice that it spilled all down his front, seeping into the fabric so that it would surely stain.

“Serves you right,” he snickered and, before he could continue, the phone began to sound with a long droning shriek. It didn’t sound particularly ominous - annoying, granted, though that was no surprise - but it sounded no different than normal which is why Mike couldn’t understand the strange sense of dread that washed over him, building with every repetitive tone. 

Everyone turned to look at Mike expectantly, just as he was about to make a big point about how Nancy should get it since she’d eaten half the pie, so he resigned quickly and trailed into the kitchen, unable to shake that uncomfortable feeling. 

“Erm, hello this is the Wheeler residence?” Mike’s voice was awkward and a little too quiet; he hated talking on the phone. 

The woman started talking before he’d even finished which he thought was rather rude, “hello this is Janet Fielding, I’m from Social Services, Maine division, does a,” she trailed off momentarily, “ah yes, a Karen Wheeler live here?”

“Uh, _ mom _,” he placed his hand over the receiver, waving her over from the doorway, “it’s for you.”

_ Social Services. _

He ran over the woman’s words in his head, just as confused as when he first heard them.

What the _ hell _did they want with his mother?

Mike was certainly one to snap at her when the opportunity presented itself - and admittedly, often when it did not - but he wouldn’t call her a bad mother, not to any degree. So yes, she didn’t get him the new BMX he’d asked for last Christmas but she _ had _bought him a Sony Walkman which he thought at least partially made up for it.

“Hello,” Karen answered the phone in a voice that was too cheery to be genuine, shooing Mike from the room with her spare hand, _ “what.” _

The way she said that word - low, whispered and full of shock - was enough to make him turn back around. She stood frozen, fingers loosely covered her mouth, eyes wide and glassy, “I see.”

Mike had wanted her to hand him some clarity on the situation, but instead she just smiled solemnly, a lone tear rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away frantically, not wanting her son to see her in such a way, “yes of course - I - no,” she was getting flustered, “let me talk to my husband.”

After scribbling down a number on the notepad they always left pinned to the front of the fridge, she put the phone down, shoulders hunched in a heavy sigh as she hovered for too long. 

“Mom,” unsure of the situation, Mike reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder in some semblance of comfort. She turned slowly to face him, trails of mascara drawn across her cheeks as she failed to hold herself together. So, for the first time in too many years, Mike was the one who pulled her into a hug. He wrapped his arms tightly around her chest, letting his head settle in the crook of her neck like he had when he was younger. 

He let her cry.


	2. miraculous waves of consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie Tozier didn’t cry, that was just a fact of life, and yet this was the second time it had happened in the last five hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so i'm here i'm back
> 
> this chapters all just the losers, next chapter we're going to see more stranger things
> 
> before i started this, i hadn't written in a while so you can tell that my writings not great in places as i'm trying to get back into it
> 
> i definitely think this is an improvement on the first chapter though, i may have to go back and make some changes to that because i'm not happy with it.

Ben usually acted as the voice of reason in any situation the group found themselves in and that night had been no exception. 

The issue was not that he was necessarily wrong, in most situations he’d most certainly be correct, the issue was that no logic or reason could be applied to Richie’s life, not even to a small degree.

They just didn’t know that.

They knew Richie didn’t get along with his parents, they’d assumed they were overbearing and strict but nothing more sinister because loud, obnoxious _ ‘Trashmouth Tozier’ _ could never keep a secret, not a one like that. 

_ More fool them, _ he’d think bitterly, _ he was probably the best liar of them all. _

And that’s why, when Ben said, “he probably just had to stay in and look after his mom, he said she was feeling ill when Bill rang him this morning,” everyone nodded, relatively satisfied with that answer.

Everyone but Eddie that was, who was insistent that he was dead in a ditch at the side of the road somewhere because that’s just the way his mind worked. 

But then, when given a few moments to mull it over, Bill decided he still didn’t like the fact that Richie had ignored all _ seventeen _of their calls over the two hours that had passed since he should have arrived.

And, not thirty seconds later, Stan spoke up with authority, “someone needs to go round and check on him,” and Eddie was already standing up before he’d even finished speaking. Bill went round the back to get his bike and Bev made some joke about not causing _ too _much chaos while he was gone, trying to hide her worries. 

It would’ve normally taken Bill and Eddie nearly fifteen minutes to cycle to Richie’s, ten if it was just Bill by himself because, despite appearances, Silver has some speed on her once she gets going. 

_ That night they made it in eight. _

Nothing about the outside of the house seemed particularly inconspicuous, even in the darkness of the night, though Bill never trusted a man who keep his garden and porch quite as pristine as Wentworth Tozier did, it was _ too _perfect.

“His dad’s car isn’t here,” Eddie noted, pulling him from his thoughts as he gestured over to the empty drive.

Bill frowed, “it’s pruh-probably just in the g-guh-garage,” he supplied and Eddie hummed in agreement even though both boys knew his dad _ never _ leaves his BMW inside, he was always insistent on _ ‘keeping up appearances'. _

They threw their bikes to the ground in sync - Bill was only _ slightly _smug when he saw the peddle of Eddie’s chopper dig into the lawn - and walked up to the front door, knocking harshly three times. 

_ Ten seconds pass. _

_ Twenty. _

No answer.

He knocks again.

_ Nothing. _

Eddie bristled past him, reaching straight for the door handle and pushing it open before Bill could say anything, “erm, hello?”

He looked back at Bill and Bill shrugged as if to say_ ‘go ahead’ _ and so he did, walking further into the house with the taller boy following close behind. 

_ “Richie,” _ he raised his voice at the same time as Bill shouted, _ “Mrs Tuh-Tozier?” _

_ Still no response. _

The anxiety that had settled comfortably in the pit of Eddie’s stomach began to twist and turn violently, seeping into every cell in his body. He fumbled in his pockets until he found his inhaler, placing it between his lips and taking a deep breath in as Bill’s hand found its way to his shoulder in comfort.

“Right you go check his bedroom, up the stairs, third on the left,” his voice was shakier than it should have been, “and I’ll see if there’s anyone down here.”

Bill’s brow twisted in confusion as he failed to recall a single time that Richie had ever invited them to stay at his. Sure, he’d seen the hallway the odd time when he’d called on him on his way to the barrens, but never in all their years of friendship had he been properly invited inside, and yet Eddie seemed to know the house quite well.

The smaller boy saw the look in Bill’s eyes and the desire to explain himself followed shortly after, “I-I, after_ it _, I got erm, well get, have-”

“Nuh-nightmares,” Bill finished for him.

“Yeah,” he breathed quietly, “Richie, he-he lets me come sleep on his floor when they get bad.”

If you’d asked Eddie why he lied about the fact that he _ does not _sleep on the floor, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you why. He hadn’t even intended to lie - they’re best friends, all of the losers share beds when they stay over - but it just came out so naturally, he didn’t even realise until he’d already said it.

Bill nodded, eyes full of understanding, as he started to walk up the stairs towards his bedroom while Eddie carried on down the hallway.

Eddie tried his best to ignore the chill that crept up his spine, the strength of it building as he stalked further into the house. It was, in many ways, a warning; his body knew he was going to find something he _ really _didn’t want to see so it did it’s best to stop him.

A defence mechanism.

Eddie, of course, continued to ignore it.

It was when he had made it to the kitchen that he saw it, _ him _. Richie Tozier, sprawled across the tiled floor, was an ungainly sight. Worse were the bruises that littered his skin, the cut on his swollen lips, and the layer of blood that plastered his hair to the right hand side of his face.

Eddie couldn’t breathe, goddammit he couldn’t even _ move _.

“Euh-euh-eddie,” Bill’s voice was getting louder as he walked down the corridor, nearing the kitchen door, “he’s not uh-up there, I-I’m stuh-starting to get worri-_ FUCK. _”

In contrast to Eddie’s reaction, he jumped straight into action, running past him only to skid to his knees at Richie’s side. His hands hover above the boys fragile body as he decides what to do with them, eventually settle for his cheek as he softly brushes a bloody strand of hair from his eyes. Two of his fingers then drop to his neck, hovering there a moment to feel for a pulse, before a small hint of relief washes over his features.

Eddie notices the steady rise and fall of Richie’s chest, he takes comfort in that.

“Cuh-call n-nine one o-one.”

Eddie still couldn’t bring himself to move.

“EDDIE.”

He hadn’t even realised he was crying until a choked sob tore free from his throat.

“Eddie,” and this time he spoke so softly, _ “he n-nuh-needs you.” _

He nodded.

“Th-th-the thuh phuh-pho-pho-phone,” his stutter was always worse when he was stressed, but he used every ounce of force he had left to get those important words out, “c-c-cu-cuh-call nuh-nine whuh-one one.”

Eddie remained unnervingly still.

“Bill his stomach,” he spoke so quietly that he’d be surprised if the other boy had even heard him, _ “the colour of them.” _

Bill looked at him through glassy eyes, confused, because he didn’t see what Eddie saw. Bill just saw his friend lying on the kitchen floor, broken, beaten and bruised; Eddie saw the way the purple bled into shades of yellows, blues and browns, dancing across the pale skin of Richie’s stomach in an intricate pattern.

Eddie knew what that meant.

“_ The colour of them Bill _ ,” he tried to explain but _ god _it hurt him to say it, “they only turn yellow after nearly two weeks.”

His face remained blank for a few moments longer, then finally Eddie watched the exact moment that the penny dropped, as Bill’s face crumpled in pain, the pain they both felt for their friend.

“That b-buh-bah-bastard,” his voice was low, and steady, and dripping with so much rage it almost scared him, _ “I’ll fucking kill him.” _

He didn’t stutter once.

Bill seethed and Eddie finally ran to the phone.

The ambulance had taken twenty minutes to arrive which Eddie, quite rightly, deemed outrageous and saw no problem in telling the paramedics just that which they weren’t overly pleased about.

“He could have bled to death, or - or what about hydrocephalus, or he could have had a _ hemorrhagic stroke _ , do you even know what that is,” he seethed, seemingly forgetting about the years of training that paramedics have to undertake, “well clearly _ not _ if you think _ twenty minutes _ is a suitable amount of time to leave him on the _ fucking floor. _”

“Eddie,” Bill said solemnly, pulling him gently out of the way, “leh-let them do their juh-job.”

The first paramedic nodded towards Bill in gratitude as she knelt down next to Richie, putting her ear to his mouth to listen to his breathing. The second was more sympathetic, giving Eddie a kind smile as he promised them, “I’ll do all I can to help your friend,” and that made him feel slightly less sick,_ slightly. _

“Breathing’s steady, airways clear, pulse is a little slower than we’d like,” she held a small light to each of his eyes for a few seconds, “pupils are responsive.”

Richie made another incoherent sound as his eyes flitted around wildly.

The man nodded in response as he applied pressure to different parts of his abdomen, looking for a pain response, “GCS?” he questioned.

“Thirteen, I’d say,” she looked back down at him, “eyes opening spontaneously, withdrawal from pain but his speech is still incomprehensible, though that’s probably because he’s just come round.”

He nodded in agreement. 

“Richie dear, can you look at me,” she said it softly, with equal parts authority and concern, but he continued to look around frantically, the panic bubbling in his chest, _ “Richie.” _

That time she’d said it louder, more firmly, but her tone hadn’t lost any of it’s sincerity. The panic had already set in, seeping into his bones, as he behind to writhe under their hold he breathing becoming increasingly erratic.

“Matt hold him, keep him steady,” she ordered her partner, “he’s got a few broken ribs he’s going to make the injuries worse.”

He complied, bracing him firmly, though gently enough not to hurt him.

“Richie, you’re okay,” she said once more.

His breathing sped up.

“Richie.”

He began to fight against them.

_ “Rich,” _ this time it was Eddie who spoke, so softly and so full of fear that he was surprised anyone had heard him. 

But they had, because Richie’s head snapped towards him and his body lay still, eyes fixed on him all scared and fragile.

This was the same Richie Tozier who clobbered Henry Bowers with a bin lid outside the Aladdin when he was twelve, the one who was _ always _the first to jump in at the quarry and and throw some stupid joke in Belch Huggins' direction, just to rile him up. It was the same Richie Tozier who stripped naked and ran down Westgate Road at two in the afternoon last week for three dollars and a half eaten mars bar.

Fear had never looked quite so foreign on anyone, Eddie thought, but he didn’t realise that it was more than just a passing acquaintance to Richie. 

His arm slowly started to extend across the floor towards Eddie, weak and feeble, like the fight in him had drained every last drop of energy he had. 

Everything about him was desperately hopeless.

Eddie looked at the paramedic, eyes seeking an affirmation, and when he got the answer he wanted - a sullen nod and a reassuring smile - he walked over, falling to his knees beside him.

“_ Eds, _” he croaked, and Eddie couldn’t bring himself to chastise the use of that name, so he let Richie curl into his side as the taller boy’s body racked with choked sobs. 

Richie Tozier didn’t cry, that was just a fact of life, and yet this was the second time it had happened in the last five hours.

\-----

_ “I’ll kill the bastard.” _

That was the first thing Richie heard when the initial wave of consciousness hit him.

It didn’t sound right - not just because it felt too far away, like he was underwater - but because he was almost certain that it was Stan’s voice and Stan didn’t say things like that.

“I’ll help you,” it was Bill this time, he was sure of it, though that was certainly less out of character for him.

A few voices sounded in agreement.

“Doubt you’ll need to,” another voice appeared but it felt even more distant, he couldn’t work out who it belonged to, “you know what happens in prison to people who hit their kids.”

It was louder this time, sweet but fiery. 

_ Bev. _

“I’d do it for a dollar.”

“I’d do it for free.”

Richie loved them, he loved them dearly.

“Hell, you could _ charge _me and I’d still do it,” Mike grumbled, voice an octave deeper than the rest.

At first, consciousness seemed to evade him. Prodding and poking but never quite _ reaching _, he wanted it to grasp him, embrace him, shake him out of the dark.

It happened slowly, then all at once.

Consciousness broke like a wave across him, drowning him, forcing itself down his throat, in his eyes, his nose, it stretched across his skin. 

The world twisted back into focus; it made him nauseous.

His friend’s hadn’t noticed, they were too busy bickering about who would pay more to kill his father, which in some twisted way he found quite endearing. The conversation felt forced, he could tell their heart wasn’t in it, they were just trying to keep their mind off the situation at large. 

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment,” he finally spoke and _ fuck _ his throat felt raw, “but Billy you have about ten dollars to your name, Mike you’re probably only _ marginally _better off and Bev, I doubt any hitman would take payment in the form of a half empty box of marlboro.”

He was hunting for a laugh, but instead they all just stared at him blankly until a few seconds passed and Eddie started sobbing, he was mildly disappointed.

“Do yourselves a favour,” he tried again, “and don’t bankrupt yourselves in my name.”

“Working on the farm pays better than you think,” Mike smirked, trying to regain some sense of normality as Eddie launched himself towards his best friend, enveloping him in a hug that was _ too _tight to be good for his ribs.

“Jesus Eds,” he laughed half-heartedly, “I don’t need you to break any more of my ribs, m’dad already did a good enough job of that.”

Eddie pulled back sharply, his face the perfect picture of guilt and Richie quickly regretted ever opening his mouth. 

Humour was his best defence, it hadn’t failed him before but somehow it felt like it was failing him now.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev muttered, her lips were pulled into a gentle smile but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He was only just starting to become aware of his surroundings; the too-bright lights, the white-wash walls and that incessant rhythmic beeping that only got louder the more he focused on it. 

God he hated hospitals, _ really fucking hated them. _

Twice in one night, he must have done something really shit in a past life to deserve that.

“W-wuh-why d-d-duh-,” among the stress and the pain of the last few hours, Bill was struggling to say what was on his mind, on everyone’s mind.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Stan finished for him, failing to hide the concern in his voice.

“We could’ve - we,” Ben stopped to compose himself, he looked like he was about one wrong word away from a breakdown, “we could’ve helped, Richie.”

There were many words people often used to describe Ben - fatty, lard-arse, dumpy, flabby and tits, Bower’s personal favourite - but Richie had always felt that they constantly forgot to mention the most important one,_ kind. _

Kind had always seemed like such a boring word until it came into contact with Ben Hanscom, that’s where it truly found it’s home. 

“We could have stopped him, or-or called someone, we could’ve done something,” by the time Eddie had found his voice, Richie had quickly begun to wish he hadn’t, “I would have strangled the fucker myself_ I am not joking _ , deadly serious,” but _ god _Richie loved his fire, “you could’ve stayed with me, I mean you’d have had to have climbed through the window but what’s new, or-”

“Stop,” Richie whispered, it was the only word he managed to force out. He’d intended to make some questionable lewd joke about how he already spends a few nights a week at Mrs K’s and she’s always _ very _grateful for it.

“-or you could stay at Bill or Stan’s, because they’d be happy to I’m sure,” Eddie continued, paying no attention to his quiet plea, “and-and their parents are way less neurotic than mine-”

_ “Please stop,” _ he whimpered.

Bill reached out for Eddie’s arm to stop him, but it was like his mouth had a mind of its own because he couldn't stop talking, “-so like they wouldn’t mind and you’d be safe Richie, he couldn't hur-”

_ “STOP,” _he shouted desperately, putting his head between his knees, hands tangled uncomfortably in his hair.

But it worked, Eddie stopped talking, frozen almost.

And then, for the third time in five hours, Richie burst into tears.

He_ really fucking hoped _ he wasn’t starting to make a habit of this.

It was as Bev started to reach an arm out in comfort, that a doctor burst through the doors to his room with an almost impressive force. A nurse followed close behind, all but dragging his friends from the room despite strong protests, particularly from Eddie who claim that he needed his friends around him and she _ clearly _didn’t give two fucks about his mental health. 

She responded by slamming the door in his face. 

The pair fussed over him for the remainder of the hour, taking readings, pressing on his stomach, prodding, poking, blood samples - _“careful love, that stuffs precious” _\- temperature, vitals and a _shit_ _ton_ of drugs. 

He asked if he could have some more sedatives and the doctor laughed like it was all just some big joke, for once in his life Richie was being quite serious. 

Once they’d finally finished examining him, Richie had expected his friends to burst back into the room, most likely arguing about who’s going to be his high score on street fighter next weekend - nobody will, for the record, he is the self-proclaimed king of that arcade. Instead, he was faced with a rather portly woman with curly blonde hair and an awful taste in fashion. Not that Richie had much ground to stand on in the way of fashion but her cashmere jumpers could make his hawaiian shirts and coke bottle glasses look like they came straight out of a six page spread in vogue italia. 

“Hello Richard,” she said curtly but not unkindly, as she walked across to the seat at his bedside, “I’m Janet from Maine Social Services and I’ll be handling your case.”

And Richie hated her on principle - the salmon pink sweater, the falsified smile and that _ godawful _ perfume that nobody under the age of sixty-five should be wearing. It made his nose itch and his head hurt but he thought it’d be rude to ask her to sit at the other side of the room and he quickly decided she wasn’t the kind of woman you’d want to get on the wrong side of. 

“_ Jesus Christ _ ,” he wrinkled his nose with a certain degree of exaggeration,“did you _ bathe _ in your perfume this morning, you smell like a hooker’s bedroom.”

Richie, unsurprisingly, had no clue what a hooker’s bedroom smelt like but he decided, about half a second prior, that it wouldn’t be far off the smell cheap perfume, sweat and cigarettes, just like the woman sat to the right of his bed. 

The look of indignation on _ ‘Janet from social services’ _ face was downright comical, had it not felt like someone had dropped a ton of bricks on his ribs, he’d have been in stitches over the whole affair. 

She chose to ignore him, jumping into an explanation of his dad’s arrest, the charges, bail and a lot of other stuff Richie really didn’t want to talk about. 

She kept apologising for his mom’s death like she was personally responsible for it, “slip ‘er a cheap shot of cyanide when she weren’t looking, did ya,” he grumbled in one of his voices but even he didn’t know which. 

Unsurprisingly, she ignored him entirely and continued on her spiel. 

He cracked jokes at the worst moments, tuned out at the best, but it was what she said next that really knocked the humour right out of him, “we’ve contacted your aunt in Indiana, you’re going to be staying with them from now on.”

He promptly vomited all over her shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed
> 
> please tell me if you liked it, it really makes me happy when you do


	3. nostalgia for a time that passed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The awful truth was that the statement, however bad it sounded, was still sugar coated; he didn’t just hit him, that was too delicate, he battered him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really not happy with this chapter so you'll likely see a lot added to it in the future but it was frying my brain so i just needed to get it out there so sorry it's a bit shit
> 
> also they've all been quite short chapters so far, i'm sorry this is the same
> 
> but they'll get longer after this one, i promise

Mike Wheeler had sat through more than his fair share of horrendously awkward dinners in his lifetime and that evening had certainly made the list. 

He’d put it above the time that Grandma Pam had come for thanksgiving but most certainly below the time that his dad had walked in on Nancy and Steve right in the middle of  _ stuff,  _ as he’d so gracefully put it, the meal was made even more tense on account of his father forcing Steve to stay for the entire thing.

Nancy couldn’t look him in the eye for a month but Mike, however, found the whole sorry state of affairs wildly entertaining and got his kicks from taunting her about it for  _ at least _ three weeks following the incident. It would have been longer had she not threatened to throw his bike in the quarry because a large part of him didn’t doubt that she’d do it and he wasn’t quite ready to play with fire.

This evening wasn’t like that though.

His mother had only managed to force down two slices of apple before she burst into tears again - Mike looked uncomfortable, Nancy rushed to hold her hand and their dad patted her on the back awkwardly, “I’m not a dog Ted,” she scolded, without any real malice, and he resorted to rubbing circles instead. 

Holly had decided to make herself useful by carrying the plates through, one by one, for Nancy to wash and Mike to, rather begrudgingly, dry. They spent most of the time in silence, save for their younger sister’s innate chatter, unsure what to make of the situation. Karen had dragged her husband upstairs to talk as soon as she’d managed to convince Holly to eat at least four pieces of broccoli before leaving her with a generous helping of apple pie to keep her entertained.

“Mike,” Nancy turned to face him, expression pensive as she pulled the rubber gloves from her hands, “what did the woman on the phone  _ actually  _ say?”

She hadn’t wanted to ask at the table for her mother’s sake, though she had burst into tears of her own accord so in the end it was hardly worth it.

“It was some woman -  _ Janet  _ \- from social services, Maine I think,” Mike shrugged, playing it off like it was no big deal but even he was worried.

That piece of information had, unsurprising, instilled little confidence in Nancy about the whole ordeal. She tried, hard, to think about why they would be ringing, their dad has a brother - _maybe, _she thinks \- but they don’t talk anymore and he lives in Kansas. The more she delved into the depths of her memories, the more her mind kept drawing blanks.

She was about to reply when the floorboards upstairs creaked and footsteps sounded as her parents came down the stairs, they summoned the kids into the front room with equally solemn looks and a shared glance. The tension in the room was palpable, not a single one of them wanted to be there, and even fewer wanted to have that conversation.

Well, to an extent that wasn’t true, Mike and Nancy had never quite gotten a grasp of the saying  _ ‘curiosity killed the cat’ _ , definitely wanted to know what was going on, yet they just both wished that nothing had actually come about in the first palace.

“I have,” she swallowed audibly, starting again, “I  _ had  _ a sister.”

The silence seemed to stretch on endlessly, though in reality it wouldn’t have been shy of thirty seconds before Karen Wheeler spoke up once more, “she died yesterday evening.”

Nancy played with her thumbs.

Mike stared at the picture frames on the wall.

Nobody spoke.  _ Not a word. _

Mike didn’t think he’d ever paid as close attention to his family photos as he had in that moment, he usually complained when they were taken and whinged even more when his mother showed them off. But now, for the sake of not wanting to face the current situation, he stared at them,  _ hard _ . 

The one that caught his attention was a few years old, a young Nancy splashing him with water as she laughed gleefully, their father smiling in the background. It was taken at Tippecanoe Lake, the last holiday they had before Holly was born, and Mike couldn’t stop thinking about how happy they all looked. And then, for the first time in his life, his heart ached with nostalgia for a time that had already passed.

His mother failed to hold back a sob.

“You’re pretty sad for a sister that you didn’t even bother to mention,” Mike mumbled carelessly, because the silence was making his skin crawl and he needed to say something,  _ anything. _ He came across as petulant, and perhaps he intended to, but genuine concern resided somewhere between the bitchiness and bravado.

“I-I’m not, that’s not, that isn’t why-,” for a woman who generally loved the sound of her own voice, Mike thought, she was really having a lot of trouble getting her words out, “you have a cousin.” 

And with that statement, his concern quickly morphed into anger.

_ “What.” _

Nancy was the first to speak, and it didn’t feel like a question, more like an exclamation. Of what? He didn’t know. Pain, shock, confusion. He was feeling all three, and more, but the overriding emotion that towered in comparison to the others was anger.

Anger that grew strong inside him, laying waste the concern that resided there only moments prior.

_ “And you didn’t tell us this because?”  _

“Michael, me and Magg- _ your aunt  _ we-we,” she paused, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth as she looked up to the ceiling to hold back the tears, “she’s an alcoholic, we don’t get on, we never have, we tried to help her but she-”

_ “-oh and that gave you the right not to tell us, _ ” Mike cut her off abruptly, the anger in his voice was tangible. Deep down, even he knew that this level of rage was unwarranted, but that didn’t stop it from bubbling to the surface. 

“How old are they?” Nancy also felt a small amount of anger settle low in her stomach, but she knew her mother had done what she thought was best so she kept it contained for everyone’s sake. 

Mike, however, had enough to make up for them both.

“Fifteen,” she said quietly, “he’s the same age as Mike.”

In the silence that followed, Ted Wheeler rose from his seat, moving to stand behind his wife so that he could place a hand on her shoulder in comfort. She took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together, “Mike, show a little compassion  _ please _ .”

“ _ Fine _ ,” he said hotly, getting up to leave the room, “I’ll send a condolence card.” 

He made it ten feet across the room and his hand was reaching out towards the door handle when his father spoke for the first time, though  _ spoke  _ was perhaps too kind of a word,  _ “Michael Fredrick Wheeler, sit back down.” _

His words weren’t shouted, they were spoken low and firm and they were dripping with authority and that was  _ so much worse.  _ Mike paused momentarily, arm remaining outstretched as he considered a potential defiance, before turning on his heel and wandering back to his seat, having decided it wasn’t worth it. Three pairs of eyes followed his path across the room; all but Holly, who had become more interested in picking at the buttons on the sleeve on Nancy’s shirt.

“Your cousin is in the hospital too,” Ted explained, staring at his both his eldest. The  _ ‘too’ _ seemed a pretty null statement given the circumstances surrounding his mother, but nobody saw the need to correct him.

_ Great is he an alcoholic as well, _ Mike thought bitterly, though he didn’t really mean it, but he managed to hold his tongue all the same. 

“What happened? Is he okay?” The little crease that formed between his sister’s eyebrows told him that Nancy was perhaps a nicer person than he was, it was genuine concern. It would be wrong to say that Mike was a bad person - he wasn’t, not to any degree - when it truly came down to it, his moral compass was strong. That didn’t change the fact that he could be selfish at times in a way Nancy never was, and that his anger often got the better of him, more times that he’d care to admit.

“My sister has never been a good person,” her voice wavered and yet she didn’t stop, “but until that phone call I hadn’t realised that the man she married was so much worse.”

A few seconds passed by and Mike was still confused but he watched as the awful wave of realisation broke over Nancy’s face. 

“He’s been hitting your cousin, and social services think it’s been going on for a while,” her voice cracked as she struggled to get the next few words out, “but this time, this time it was  _ bad _ .”

The awful truth was that the statement, however bad it sounded, was still sugar coated; he didn’t just  _ hit  _ him, that was too delicate, he  _ battered  _ him.

\---

Mike barely slept that night. He didn’t even know it was possible for someone to have this many thoughts bouncing around their head - it was  _ exhausting - _ but it had kept him awake for an inconsiderate amount of time. The clock read  _ ‘2:43’ _ when he rolled over for what must have been nearing the one-hundred-and-fiftieth time, he hadn’t been counting but he was prone to exaggeration at times.

There was one overwhelming feeling that had punched him pretty hard in the stomach when he slammed his bedroom door several hours ago, and that feeling was guilt. He felt it for many reasons - for shouting, for his insolence, for Richard, - but, above everything else, he felt it because he knew deep down that he didn’t want his cousin to move in.

It wasn’t out of spite, he truly did feel sorry for the kid, but he didn’t like change. Although he wouldn’t admit it, with all that had happened, home felt like something of a safe place, where his parents didn’t know and he could go back to being normal for a few hours at a time. It was his comfort, and he didn’t want someone encroaching on that. 

But that brought with it the sickening guilt, he  _ wished  _ he didn’t mind.

Mike had been to hell and back, but the hell this kid had been living in for the past fifteen years sounded a whole lot worse.

\---

Will looked at him - the slump of his shoulders, the deep rings of purple under his eyes and the greyish pallor of his skin - and realised that Mike wasn’t okay. The others had yet to notice, Dustin and Max were arguing about their highscores at the arcade and Lucas was defending her, partly because he felt obliged to, mostly because he thought she was way more intimidating than Dustin.

Will swallowed his last mouthful of sandwich and kicked Mike under the cafeteria table - not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make him jump - nodding towards the main doors when he made eye contact. He made for a swift exit, Mike in tow, as he mumbled something to the others about needing to see Mr Clarke for their science project.

The February air was cool on their skin, Mike found it pleasantly soothing but the smaller boy pulled his jacket tighter around his body, trying to conserve heat. Ever since, ever since - his mind shied away from the memory - ever since _ then _ , he was always cold.

A chill had resided in his bones and, as far as Will was concerned, it wasn’t welcome.

Will didn’t say anything, he didn’t intend to, because he knew Mike would eventually start talking and after a few long moments, he was proven right, “mom got a phone call last night,” he paused for a moment, not taking his eyes from shoes, “social services or some shit, turns out I’ve got a cousin, same age.”

Will thought about how he’d have liked a cousin, someone in his family his own age - not that he didn’t love Jonathan because he did,  _ he truly did _ , but sometimes the age gap was more apparent than he would have liked. But weight of Mike’s voice, the dejection that seeped into his tone, told him that his friend didn’t share the same sentiments so he decided not to voice that opinion.

“Why did you find that out from social services?” he chose to ask the more pressing question. Karen Wheeler was a lovely woman, whose only fault was perhaps caring too much, and Ted Wheeler, despite his penchant for laziness, truly did love his children. Neither of them would be the reason social services had made a call, not unless everything Will knew was wrong, which meant that the issue was on Mike’s cousin’s end and he knew nothing about the boy - or the girl.

Mike thought about his answer for a moment, a small part of him didn’t even want to tell him, he felt it brought an uncomfortable sort of finality to the situation and that thought didn’t comfort him. It was a waste of time though, to delay the inevitable, both boys knew he’d never keep anything from his best friend. At this point Will already knew something was wrong and no amount of wishful thinking would mean he’d forget that fact in the near future.

“His dad’s been beating him,” he sighed, head in his hands, “ _ badly _ , he’s coming to live with us.”

Will couldn’t help the way he recoiled slightly, or how his brow creased in horror, but he wished he could have as it only made the look of guilt in Mike’s eyes grow even more uncomfortable. Mike was a closed book, but if anyone could even come slightly close reading even the smallest snapshot of his feelings it would be Will Byers. Now he didn’t quite know why Mike would feel guilty about the situation but, if he had to take a shot in the dark, he’d have correctly said that he didn’t want his cousin to move in. Though that’s as far as his insight would take him, he’d have to ask if he wanted more information but he didn’t feel that now was the time to do that.

“ _ Jesus, _ ” he breathed gently, “I hope he’s okay.”

Will was quiet for a moment longer, thoughtful, as he gave his mind a moment to truly process what Mike had just told him. His heart hurt for the boy, it did, he’d been through so much shit himself but the people who were meant to love him had always done so. 

This boy didn’t even have that.

“It didn’t sound good,” he shook his head and Will could tell he was worried about him, “dad said he’s getting discharged from the hospital in a few days, he’s been in since Monday.”

_ The hospital?  _ God, this was worse than he had even expected.

_ “The bastard,” _ Will said quietly. He was good-natured boy who rarely saw fit to swear, yet he doubted there was a single swear world in existence that couldn’t be suitably applied to Mike’s description of the man.

“Yeah,” Mike laughed humourlessly before repeating himself with more conviction,  _ “yeah.” _

Although he wanted to know more about the cousin, Will knew not to press, Mike was in a weird frame and that was the last thing he needed. So instead he turned his line of questioning to Mike himself and asked him the one question that nobody else had bothered to ask, “how do  _ you  _ feel about that?”

He thought for a moment and again, chose not to lie.

_ “I don’t know,” _ was the only answer he gave, because it was the only one he could give truthfully, “conflicted.”

He had lied many times in his life but not once had he lied to Will Byers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed, please tell me if you did
> 
> i might add more to this chapter at a later date, it just feels a bit bland?? 
> 
> idk i'm not too happy with it
> 
> sorry it wasn't great


	4. another youth wasted and eternally tainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People didn’t know he thought these things but they didn’t have to, it was a secret he promised himself he’d take to the grave, though he always wondered if that secret would take him to the grave in a town like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: she said - sundara karma   
( it's a good song go listen )
> 
> welcome back, sorry we haven't been acquainted for a while

“Well I intended to spend my last night at Mrs K’s, give her a _ proper _ send off, y’know,” Richie smirked through a mouthful of salt and vinegar crisps, eliciting a small groan from Eddie who was sat cross-legged a few feet away, “but what can I say, I guess you guys will have to do.”

A chorus of, “ _ beep beep Richie, _ ” sounded from around the room, it was as familiar and comforting as Richie had always found it. He regularly took it as a compliment, in lieu of a round of applause, and he didn’t realise quite how much he was going to miss it until that moment.

He allowed himself a rare moment of silence to watch the scene unfold in front of him. He smiled as Bev whacked Mike across the head with her pillow, only to knock Bill’s mother’s vase off the side table which Ben  _ just  _ managed to catch in time even though all the dead flowers, and the slightly stagnant water that came with them, had deposited themselves all over Eddie who had unfortunately been lying underneath.

His gaze lingered the longest on Eddie as he gave himself the rare liberty to observe the things that he probably shouldn’t: the slope of his back, the curve of his lips, the way his fringe had fallen in front of his face for a change, just reaching his eyes. People didn’t know he thought these things but they didn’t have to, it was a secret he promised himself he’d take to the grave, though he always wondered if that secret would take  _ him  _ to the grave in a town like this.

If Henry Bowers and his gang of halfwit followers had any say in the matter he didn’t doubt that it would. 

He found himself wondering if Hawkins would be any different.

_ “WHAT THE FUCK,” _ Eddie screeched at an almost deafening pitch, Richie was sure the male vocal chords shouldn’t be able to produce a sound that high though he felt if anyone could be considered an exception to nature’s rules, it would be Edward Kaspbrak.

“Hey Eddie,” Bill began but he was promptly cut off.

“DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GERMS ARE PROBABLY IN THAT WATER, MILLIONS BILL  _ MILLIONS, _ ” he screamed, the panic evident in his eyes, “I’M PROBABLY GOING TO GET CHOLERA OR SYPHILIS.”

Eddie was about two-point-seven seconds away from a complete breakdown so Richie characteristically responded with something absolutely useless, “incorrecto Eduardo, syphilis is a sexually transmitted disease and you’re definitely not getting any at th-,” he paused, “unless that’s why you were looking for Vicky Donovan last Tuesday huh Eds.” 

Though Richie knew what he was doing with that  _ ‘something useless’  _ as over the years he’d become somewhat adept at steering Eddie out of the direction of a panic attack by annoying him to such an extent that he’d become distracted to the point that he’d stop thinking about whatever was bothering him in the first place. He’d been tactfully doing it for nearly five years now and Eddie still didn’t seem to have clicked on.

Mike wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Eddie turned beet red in a matter of seconds stumbling over a few vehement denials as Richie listened to the way his breathing began to steady as his brain filled itself with thoughts of Vicky Donovan instead of the mouldy water he was covered in.

Even Richie would admit, it didn’t smell great. 

Bill, who had retreated upstairs a few moments ago, returned with a towel in one hand and a clean t-shirt in the other, offering both to Eddie, “you know where the shower is, just don’t use like half a bottle of soap like last time.”

“I’m surprised his body doesn’t naturally secrete the stuff,” Richie laughed, to which Eddie just sneered, “his shits probably smell like Chanel N o 5.”

Eddie then saw fit to grab the towel from Bill’s hand and proceed to whack Richie over the face with such force, it sent his glasses flying across the other side of the room. Instinctively, his arms went to protect his face, “ow-fuck, that was a compliment really.” He squinted his eyes but it barely made a difference, “better smell like that than Big Bill’s,” and a chorus of agreements sounded throughout the room.

“Oi, I can throw you all out my house you know,” he said sarcastically but Richie was too busy watching Eddie as he waited for the perfect time to make his move. That moment came a split-second later when Eddie turned to reply to the threat and Richie sprung into action, launching his entire body weight at his friend’s legs. Eddie screeched in fear as he tumbled over, head smacking into the sofa and his legs forming a jumbled mass with Richie’s. 

He didn’t miss a beat before throwing himself back towards Richie, tackling him to the ground. The others rolled their eyes and watched on with a certain fondness reserved only for their friends, making no effort to break up the spat.

“I’m blind as a bat,” Richie forced out between laughs, ignoring the pain in his ribs, tears streamed down his face as Eddie battered him over the head again, “you can’t attack the handicapped that’s  _ unfair _ .”

Eddie’s elbow made accidental contact with his ribs and this time he couldn’t stop himself from inhaling sharply as his face contorted in pain. Eddie leapt backwards like he’d been electrocuted, _ “oh my god Richie I’m so sorry I didn’t think, I didn’t mean to, I -” _

The rest of the room went silent as none of them really knew what to say, since the hospital visit they’d all made good effort to avoid the subject after realising that Richie was making an active effort to gloss over it himself. Stan ran over to his side to help him up onto the sofa but Richie was too preoccupied in trying to convince Eddie that he’d done nothing wrong, “Eds look it’s fine, no harm done, certainly less damage than that time I pushed you off your bike when we were ten so I guess we’re even now yeah?”

Eddie smiled weakly but he still looked as if he could burst into tears at the slightest inconvenience and that inconvenience arrived a few seconds later when he noticed that the cut on Richie’s side had begun to bleed through his shirt. 

It took ten minutes and a group effort to calm Eddie down and he only stopped crying once Richie had promised him he’d let him clean up the stitches and drown him in rubbing alcohol. He didn’t quite understand why he couldn’t have been consoled by a hug and a piece of chocolate instead like the average person but he guessed they all had their quirks.

The rest of the night continued much more smoothly, but Richie couldn’t help but notice the way their smiles never reached their eyes and each of his jokes - including some pretty damn funny ones if he did say so himself - seemed to make them all more sad than the last. He finally fell asleep at nearing two-in-the-morning, with Stan’s foot in his back and Eddie’s shoulder in his side and he couldn’t ignore that fact that it was the safest he’d ever felt.

\---

That morning was arguably the worst of his life, and he’d really had some shit mornings in his time. He’d even put this above the  _ that _ summer because, even with all the horrors he’d faced, they faced them together as one. This is something he had to do entirely alone and even though he thought he’d never admit it, that scared him.

Much to his dismay, the journey would take nearly twenty-three hours, and that didn’t account for the forty-five minutes he’d have to wait in Portland and the two hour stopover in Boston. That, of course, was only if the buses were actually on time which, from Richie’s previous experiences, he deemed to be less punctual than himself and his mother often used to tell him he’d be late for his own funeral.

The bus pulled into the station with an almighty groan and a noise that reminded Richie of the time he’d put his entire lego set in the washing machine when he was seven. He was certainly no mechanic but even he knew that the engine didn’t sound healthy. 

He wished he’d stood his ground with Janet and refused to leave unless his friends were able to wave him off at the bus stop, but she’d been so adamantly against it -  _ it’ll only make it harder Richard _ \- and Richie had been so close to crying that he feared saying a single word would leave him in a flood of tears. 

“Hey,” a voice said softly as a hand landed on his left shoulder, “are you okay?” He turned to face Beverly, the only loser who’d come with him, and a little bit of his anxiety shifted. She booked the same bus back to Portland so that there had been at least someone with him for part of the journey, he didn’t tell her quite how grateful he’d been for that company.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat but his feeble attempts seemed to only make it grow, “never better love,” he said in his British accent, which was even worse than normal, but Bev didn’t see fit to tell him that fact this time. 

It was then that he heard it, “ _ Richie, _ ” it was quiet at first, but then it sounded again, louder, no _ closer,  _ “RICHIE.” Then he felt it before he saw it, arms wrapped tightly around him, a body thrown into his, the smell of apple shampoo and anti-bac,  _ home.  _ And he still couldn’t see the boys face, it was pressed squarely into his shoulder as he cried,  _ sobbed _ , his whole body shaking. 

“Eds,  _ Eds _ , why all the tears?” he tried to smile but his attempt was weak, “this ain’t a funeral -  _ jesus, _ ” he cut himself off when he noted the way Eddie was breathing, or rather not, deep gasps like a fish out of water, “did you run the whole way?”

Eddie nodded his head but Richie didn’t see because he was too busy rummaging through his backpack for the spare inhaler he always kept on the other boy’s behalf, “here - now  _ breathe _ because it might well be a funeral if you don't.” 

Richie held the inhaler to his mouth and Eddie began to slow his breathing, taking in one big draw of salbutamol, “do you think I look strong enough to carry your coffin down the aisle eh spaghetti, because if you do, I can tell you you’re wrong,” he laughed, “you’ll have to give me six months at least before you go trying anything like that again.”

Eddie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry some more so instead he pulled him back into a tight hug finally found some words, “I don’t want you to go, I can’t lose my best friend.”

“You’re not losing me Eds,” he ruffled the smaller boy’s hair, “I’m only a phone call and a twenty-three hour bus journey away -  _ I know _ ,” he continued at the site of Eddie’s discontented expression, “twenty-three hours it’s a bloody joke, think me nan could’ve driven faster than that and she was legally blind.”

The British accent made a second appearance but it wasn’t his usual posh voice, this was a new one, a little more cockney but overplayed. It reminded Eddie of Dick Van Dyke and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, “don’t call me Eds,” were the only words he could manage to get out without crying again.

Janet, in all her untimely glory, had decided that exact moment was the perfect time to make her presence known and Richie could well have killed her for it, “now Richard you’ve got your paperwork?”

The teen nodded as he took an awkward step back from his friend. 

She continued to list off a series of things he’d ought to have - bus tickets, all three of them, passport, money, his aunt’s phone number, social services forms - and he nodded to every one of them. He nodded less enthusiastically in response to the phone number because he couldn’t for the life of him remember if he did write it down or not but he hardly had the energy for another lecture from her so he looked past it.

\---

Karen Wheeler felt sick.

Not like the kind of sick she had felt the previous Wednesday when she’d allowed, or more accurately persuaded, Ted to make the dinner for a change and he hadn’t cooked the chicken properly. Part of her thought that he’d done it on purpose so that she’d never ask him to cook again, if that was the case she’d have to begrudgingly admit he’d succeeded because you would not find her eating a single thing he made for at least the following six months.

No, this was something else.

A deep-rooted anxiety that bubbled uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. In her mind, she believed that everything that could possibly go wrong, would almost certainly go awry. What if he hated them, what if they hated him - in the case of Mike Wheeler this concern was perhaps not entirely misplaced - what if he never arrives, what if he’s a delinquent - true in some senses though a little harsh - what if he’s an awful boy, what if he doesn’t fit in, what if, what if,  _ what if? _

She sighed with a degree of exaggeration, head in her hands. It was midday - ten past the hour - and she would need to set off soon if she had any hope of arriving there on time. Well, that’s what she thought anyways; she was the kind of woman who was always convinced she’d be half an hour late to everything when in actuality she never failed to be frustratingly early. She’d agreed over the phone with Janet - though she cut the call off promptly as she couldn’t stand the tone of the woman’s voice - to meet her nephew half-way. They’d agreed on Pittsburgh, a seven hour drive from Hawkins, and she’d booked one of the cheaper motels that didn’t look too much like one of the crime shows that she never understood why Ted loved quite as much as he did. 

The kids were both at school, Ted at work, and she’d dropped Holly off at a friends house for the day, so it was just her in the house as she packed the last few things for her journey. Walking towards the front door, she took the car keys from the dish on the side table and went through her mental checklist one last time. When she was convinced she’d definitely gotten everything, she left the house and started on her journey to Pittsburgh.

\---

Richie was bored.

Well, Richie was always bored but this time he was  _ bored _ . 

“How long has it been?” he asked for what must have been the third time already. 

Bev sighed in response, looking at her watch even though she  _ knew _ it had only been five minutes since he last asked her, “twenty seven minutes.”

Twenty seven minutes,  _ twenty seven.  _

He still had nearly an entire day left on these buses. He thought that this journey was perhaps the worst thing that had ever happened to him, then a split second later he laughed internally at the absurdity of that thought, a smile gracing his lips.

The silence made him uncomfortable, made his skin crawl but for the first time in his life he truly didn't know what to say. Under normal circumstances he’d have spent the whole journey running his mouth off about everything he could possibly see: the young child throwing up into a McDonald’s bag at the front of the bus, the man with two teeth missing who was snoring at an inhumanly high pitch and the old-lady who was knitting perhaps the most hideous jumper he’d ever seen. He really did feel sorry for her grandkids, they weren’t going to have a fun Christmas that year, the photos from that holiday season would be brought up for other people’s amusement for years to come. 

He brought his mind back from its reverie and sighed, he just didn’t know what to say. Nothing quite seemed good enough for perhaps the last time he’d see her. She’d promised, well they’d all promised, that it would most certainly  _ not _ be a permanent goodbye thought he couldn’t break free from his own insecurities that told him a small part of them would be happy to see the back of him. That they’d rejoice in the peace and quiet he’d taken from them for so many years, his thoughts couldn’t be further from the truth - he’d leave a hole in their life and an uneasy silence that never quite shifted - but the thoughts pervaded his brain all the same. 

He remained silent for the rest of the journey to Portland, only speaking up again to thank the bus driver as they alighted the vehicle, and Bev had let him sit with his own thoughts for a while which he was grateful for. He’d taken a seat at the far end of the bus station, next to the vending machine but far from the screaming baby who’d nearly deafened him near the ticket booth, and Bev promptly sat down next to him refusing to leave his side until his next bus arrived. He’d vehemently refused, saying that she didn’t need to wait with him, but she ignored his demands and he couldn't have been more grateful for that fact.

A long five minutes passed before he finally found the courage to speak, “I’m scared Bev,” and she looked at him with so much pain and sympathy in her eyes.

“I know,” the way she spoke, softly and with so much love, almost made it worse, “though I was beginning to doubt that you’d ever admit it.” She wrapped an arm around his shoulder in comfort, allowing his head to fall onto her shoulder as she wrapped a lock of his hair around her finger absentmindedly, playing with his curls. 

He tried - _ he really did _ \- to hold the tears back but it made his head ache and his throat hurt and  _ god  _ he was exhausted. He’d resigned himself to the fact that maybe Richie Tozier did in fact cry but he wouldn’t say he particularly liked that newfound revelation. 

Until his mother had died two weeks ago, the last time he’d cried was nearly three years back that summer. When  _ it  _ had Eddie and godammit Richie was so scared that he’d watch him die there and then, in the Neibolt. He’d already seen some version of him die, not ten minutes prior, blood pouring from his mouth as he reached out towards him; he couldn’t see the real thing too, Richie thought that would finally have broken him. He went home that evening and cried like he never had before, he cried until he couldn’t breathe, until his head sang and his eyes burned, he cried until he couldn’t feel anymore.

That was also the first night he truly realised something about himself, well perhaps deep down he’d known it all along but that was the first time he’d ever decided to acknowledge it.

“It’ll be okay you know,” Bev finally spoke up, “it may not feel like right now, but it will be.”

Beverly Marsh was a wise girl, one of the smartest he knew, though he didn’t know many girls but he was sure that if he did they’d not be clever in the way Bev was. It wasn’t necessarily academic, though her grades were by no means bad, but it was in life. She just knew things about things, and Richie was aware that wasn’t his most eloquent statement but he couldn’t think of a better way to put it.

“Bev I’m losing everything,” he mumbled, his head remained comfortably on her shoulder as he didn’t make the effort to look at her, “I  _ know  _ you’re all only a phone call away but it’s not like that, it’s not the same.”

It was everything else he’d miss, the lazy summer days in the clubhouse, the stupid remarks and little smiles, he’d even miss the silence, when they were all caught up in their own thoughts and content in each others company.

“If you managed to find six of us in the whole of that goddamn town,” Bev pulled his gaze to meet hers, “you will be able to find at least one person in this Hawkins place I can promise you that.”

_ “But they won’t be you lot.” _

“No they won’t,” she answered honestly, “but maybe that isn’t a bad thing, hell you might even get on with them so much better, you might find someone with the same twisted sense of humour as you.”

He laughed, dejected, “not possible, my humour is as unique as it is brilliant.”

“Although,” she continued, mock condescension, “I would have to resent them wildly if you did decide you preferred them to us.”

Bev had a way of comforting him that nobody else could quite manage. Eddie’s presence alone soothed him, Stan always approached everything with undeniable logic, Bill could make anyone feel safe, but Bev had a fortunate habit of saying the right things just when they needed to be said. 

Their conversation lapsed into innate chatter as Richie’s tears dried up, they talked about everything and nothing at all, they laughed, they cried some more and they barely noticed the time passing until Richie had to sprint to his next bus as not to miss it.

She pulled him into one final tight hug - and he didn't have the heart to tell her she was crushing almost every rib he’d had broken - and kissed the top of his forehead gently before waving him onto the bus with a sad smile. 

It wasn’t until that moment that he realised what he was about to do, as new and scary as it had seemed, Bev had already done before him. She’d left them to move in with her aunt in Portland, albeit it wasn’t nearly as far, but she’d moved away nonetheless and she still saw them all the time.

And if Beverly Marsh could do it, then maybe he could at the very least attempt it.

\---

“An Americano please, large, with milk,” she told the waiter as he’d come to take her order. He was a young boy, probably just shy of sixteen and if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by, he seemed just as exhausted as she was. 

“Steamed?” he asked with a smile and she made a mental note to tip him a few dollars when she paid because he looked like he’d earned it by this point. She nodded in response, telling him that was all, and he scribbled something down on his notepad before returning it to the barista who looked grateful for something to do. 

It was 8:43 in the evening and Karen had ended up in an  _ ‘open-all-hours’ _ greasy spoon a short distance down the road from the motel. She’d checked in an hour ago, using the phone at the reception to dial home and tell Ted she’d made it safely. Richard’s bus was due to get in at 9:37pm and she feared she’d have fallen asleep if she’d spent that time waiting in the room. 

The coffee came shortly after, it was cheap and it tasted as such, but she needed something to keep her awake and a strong coffee always seemed to do the job. With every mouthful she swallowed, she tried to ignore that cosmo article she’d read the week before about the ageing effects of caffeine but she wasn’t having much luck, not that it stopped her from finishing the entire mug in a few minutes. 

She stayed for half an hour as the bus station was only a ten minute drive away, picking up that morning’s local paper from the table across. The headlines were as depressing as always:  _ ‘statewide drugs crisis worsens with 172 reported deaths this month’, ‘three dead in Pittsburgh home invasion’, ‘body of young girl recovered from Lake Eerie’  _ but as she flicked through the pages she did find some more pleasant ones, namely the large photo on page 23 of a man holding at least three kittens in each arm with the words,  _ ‘local firefighter brandished hero for saving thirty-one animals from pet shelter blaze, _ ’ brandished in bold underneath.

When the clock read 9:15, she closed the paper, folding it back up neatly and leaving it on the counter with a few dollars tip which the boy gratefully received. She got into her car outside, making a dash for it in the rain, before taking a short moment to compose herself as the nerves began to creep back once more. The drive only took her eleven minutes but, as she fretted and worried the entire distance, it certainly seemed to her like considerably longer. 

It was once she’d parked the car and was standing inside the terminal, inspecting every teenager that entered, that she realised she actually had no clue what the boy, her own nephew, looked like at all. She’d only met him once in her life, back nearly fifteen years ago when he bald as a coot and only six months old; her and Maggie had their final falling out not long after that as she never heard from the family again. 

The paperwork for his case had only officially gone through the system three days ago and they’d told her they didn’t have a suitable photo to send her, only the ones from the police report and they hadn’t been released yet. The woman on the phone had described him in a way which didn’t sound dissimilar to her own son, save for a huge mop of curly hair and a pair of thick lensed glasses which she made a large point about. 

In reality, when she did finally lay eyes on him ten minutes later, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he could have been anyone else. The resemblance he held to her Michael was quite frankly disconcerting, they could have been twins. As he got closer she began to notice the little differences - his eyes were slightly darker and his cheekbones a little sharper - but she also noticed other things, the smears of purple that littered his face, the cut on his lip and the slight wince of pain every time he took a step.

_ It made her sick.  _

The anger rose up in her hot and sudden, but she was going to make it her god-given duty to ensure not a single person ever raised a finger to that boy again.

“Auntie Karen?” he said when he was close enough to ask, still not sure if he was speaking to the right person. For a boy who was nearing 5’8 at only fifteen years old, she couldn’t help but notice how small he seemed - the way his shoulders hunched in on himself and he held his head bowed. 

“Richard,” she responded and his eyes brightened a touch at the recognition. He lifted his head up and stood a little straighter which was when she really took note of how tall he was, a few inches taller than her and at least an inch taller than her own son.

“Aye ma’am that’d be me,” he said in an accent that Karen couldn’t quite place, but she suspected it was meant to be British, “erm sorry I mean yeah that’s me, but,” he paused for a second, “is it okay if you call me Richie?”

She laughed at the slight absurdity of the boy which somehow brought a smile to his face but she told him not to apologise before taking one of the bags off him and saying, “follow me then Richie.”

He fell into step behind her as she headed for the car, though one of his strides seemed to account for two of hers. The first thing Karen Wheeler truly ever discovered about her nephew is that he talks when he’s nervous, _ a lot.  _

He started talking about anything and everything that came to mind: the rain, the boy in the hideous yellow windbreaker, the way her hair barely moved an inch in the wind -  _ what hairspray do you use Auntie Karen, it must be a damned good one _ \- and he spent a good minute explaining his reasoning behind thinking that the greyhound buses need to improve their quality control. Apparently the second bus was on the verge of breaking down for the  _ entire  _ stretch of the journey which she deemed to be an exaggeration and, if pressed, Richie would probably have to agree. Neither of them, however, would find out that the bus did actually break down at the side of the road not two stops after he’d gotten off. 

“I’m sorry,” he spoke up after a minute’s silence; they were sat in the car park waiting for the engine to warm up so they could put the heater on. Richie’s hands had turned a disconcerting shade of purple in the cold - testament to the fact that he wasn’t even wearing a coat, never-mind a pair of gloves or a hat - and Karen wasn’t fairing much better herself.

“For what?” she replied, confused at his sudden apology. She took the handbrake off and reversed smoothly out of the space as she turned the wheel to pull out onto the road.

“For talking so much,” he smiled, shaking his head slightly as he fiddled with his thumbs, “I’m nervous, I didn’t really know what to say so I guess I just said -”

“- everything,” Karen supplied with a laugh and Richie nodded in response, “well that’s nothing to apologise for,” she told him and she really did mean it, for now at least. It was nice having someone like him wanting to talk to her, Mike only ever seemed to utter a word in her direction when he was shouting at her for no reason or he wanted to know when dinner would be ready and even Nancy had her moments where she dismissed her.

“I forget people aren't used to it.”

“Are you telling me this isn't a one time thing,” she laughed, at this point just thankful the conversation wasn’t too awkward and he was actually willing to talk to her. She wondered what it would be like having him around the house, though she would find out very soon. If he wasn’t joking, she doubted she’d get much peace for the foreseeable future but maybe that wouldn’t be all that bad.

“Nope, sorry,” he laughed, only mildly apologetic, “guess you’re going to have to get used to the noise, or buy some ear plugs.”

“Oh then you  _ severely  _ doubt the amount of noise my youngest can make,” Karen laughed properly this time, the tension finally seeping from shoulders, “if you can make more noise than she does when I tell her she isn’t allowed any more chocolate, I’ll be impressed.”

“Oh okay, see now that sounds like a challenge to me and -” he was cut off by the loud rumble of his own stomach, reminding him that the last thing he ate was a packet of crisps nearly ten hours ago, “sorry,” he cringed, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d apologised so much, “haven't really eaten properly today.”

Karen’s expression turned pensive for a second as she captured her bottom lip between her teeth in thought. Then, with only a brief glance in the rearview mirror, she braked hard, turning the wheel sharply to the left so she could do a U-turn in the middle of the road.

“Is that even legal?”

“Probably not,” she responded with honesty, ignoring the slight sense of pride when she noticed the respect in her nephew’s eyes.

He laughed jovially, “okay, so can I ask what that was for?”

“There was a diner I saw earlier, a few miles this way,” she thought the boy deserved something nice, however small of a gesture it may be, after the journey he’d endured.

And so they leaned back in their seats, both thinking how so far the situation had gone much better than they had hoped, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo what do we think? how's richie going to settle in? how are the losers going to deal? is mike going to be a twat?
> 
> did you like the chapter?
> 
> sorry it took so long i had no motivation for like a month then i randomly managed to bang out 5k in two nights so i don't know what happened there
> 
> anyways, i'd really love it if you were to leave a review with you opinions, theories or suggests it really makes me smile
> 
> all the love,  
charlie
> 
> p.s. they'll be meeting next chapter :)))


	5. distract my brain from the terrible news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although his intended foray into drug dealing never quite came to pass, he did sell four codeines to some kid behind the Aladdin for ten dollars, half a packet of wagon wheels and a McDonald's happy meal toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: it's not living (if it's not with you) - the 1975
> 
> OKAY SO FOREWARNING IM SORRY I KNOW I SAID THEY'D MEET THIS CHAPTER BUT THEY DON'T
> 
> i was going to write a little bit for before they met then that little bit turned into 4k words which is basically its own chapter. this isn't going to change how long it will be until you see them meet, it just means you get this part earlier rather than having to wait until ive written their meeting before i publish this but apologies anyways
> 
> other than that, enjoy!

Mike Wheeler wasn’t happy.

Though, to some degree, that suggested the world was turning on its axis and all was as it should be. He’d been offered an ultimatum: clear out the basement by tonight or be grounded for the rest of the month. Mike had spent a good amount of time and energy arguing his case but his father merely turned a blind eye, tuned out for most of his wittering, then provided him with the same decision again once he had finished.

Will thought Mike had developed an eye twitch in the hour succeeding the argument but had decided it would serve them all better if he avoided mentioning it.

Dustin, however, had other ideas, “Mike are you alright? Your left eye has gone all funny.”

Or perhaps he just hadn’t thought at all.

Will sighed and Lucas - who was standing out of Mike’s current eyeline - mouthed _ ‘well done’ _over his friend’s shoulder which he paired with a rather disapproving look. 

The box Mike was trying to shift made an almighty crash as it hit the floor, he’d been waiting for someone to ask him that question for the past twenty-seven minutes. A fact which all three of them knew but had been tactfully trying to put off for as long as they possibly could without seeming like bad friends. Well, two of them had anyways, Dustin just hadn’t been paying close enough attention until that point.

“No, no I am not, thank you for asking,” Mike seethed and Will sat down, knowing he’d be in it for the long haul, “my cousins got to come and live with us, fine, fair, okay.” He’d begun to pace the length of the room, shaking his head in frustration, “but why does he have to take the basement, _ my _basement?”

“It’s really not the end of the world Mike,” Lucas reasoned but he knew there was no consoling Mike when he was in one of his moods. In his defence, he didn’t have them often. Stroppiness, yes, now that he was all too familiar with but a full blown state like the one he was in now? Largely uncommon. 

Though he’d seemingly been in this one for over a week if anyone was counting and, although Will had the patience of a saint, even he was starting to get fed up at this point, “exactly, and who knows, he’s our age he could be pretty cool.”

“This is _ our _basement though, not his,” Mike whined, “it’s where we play D&D and have sleepovers, and where we made El’s fort, it’s our place.”

And even Will would have to admit to himself that that statement annoyed him. He’d spent the last month, since the creature took him, praying for things to go back to normal - board games, biking to fort Byers, planning campaigns, going to the arcade, impromptu sleepovers - and yet none of his friend’s seemed to share the same interests anymore. It was for that reason that Will was slightly disgruntled by Mike’s claim that it would ruin the D&D sessions that they hadn’t even had in nearing six months, “you move in then.” 

He said it a little harsher than intended but none of them seemed to think much of it.

“What do you mean?” Mike’s brow creased subconsciously as he tried to make sense of Will’s suggestion. If he was truly honest, he didn’t even want a solution, he was just in the mood to rant and make a fuss about something ultimately rather insignificant. In a strange way that he couldn’t quite explain, it gave him a certain comfort that merely accepting the situation did not.

“You move into the basement, give your cousin your room.” 

He hadn’t expected Mike to like the idea, he’d already braced himself for a string of complaints but when they didn’t arrive, Lucas jumped in to back up his point, “yeah you can do it up a bit, like your own den and then we can still keep it as our space.”

Mike looked as if he was thinking, something which it would be fair to say he didn’t do that often, and he eventually came to a conclusion, “yeah okay,” he thought some more before replying with more conviction, “yeah, _ yeah.” _

He shoved past the box he’d dropped a minute early, knocking over one of the chairs as he bounded up the stairs with considerable speed, “DAD,” he shouted before he’d even made it to the living room, _ “DAD.” _

His dad was asleep, sprawled lazily in the armchair in the front room. He’d only been snoring for around quarter of an hour before his peace was abruptly snatched from him as Mike threw himself through the door with impressive force. Ted mumbled something about paying for the hinges if he broke them again, he was referring to an unfortunate incident that happened a few years back during a game of hide and seek which saw the door ripped clean from the frame. 

“Michael what is it?” His tone was disapproving, and only one eye remained open as he’d decided he didn't have the energy to open both. 

Mike looked at him skeptically, “mom says you should stop falling asleep in the chair, it’s bad for your back.” He genuinely didn’t understand his father's unflinching ability to fall asleep almost anywhere and everywhere you could put him. 

_ God what a boring talent, _ he thought. 

He really didn’t want to get old.

“I was just resting my eyes,” he resorted to his usual excuse and both of them were _ blatantly _aware of the fact that he was lying but the look in Ted Wheeler’s eyes dared his son to say otherwise. That look remained on his face for a few seconds longer before he couldn’t stop his lips from pulling into a smile and Mike began to laugh alongside him, “have you cleared the basement yet?” 

He already knew what the answer was going to be but he thought he’d ask him anyways just for the sake of it. Mike’s laughter stopped and he fixed his father with a sort of hopeful look, “no, but,” he paused, “I have a proposition.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well it’s Will’s really.”

“Smart kid.”

“So, you know how the basement’s sort of like my space” he stopped to think momentarily, unsure of how his dad would take the suggestion. Ted Wheeler was actually thinking about how, as he owned the house, the basement was ‘sort of like _ his _space’ but he stopped himself from saying it, regardless of the sarcasm it would have held. “How about if I move into the basement instead, and we give Richard my room.”

He gave himself a minute to mull it over, a warm sense of pride filling his chest at his son’s decided maturity about the matter. Not that maturity is a word either Dustin, Will or Lucas would have used to describe his earlier outburst but perhaps he was showing off a touch of it now. “Okay so, a change in ultimatum: clear out your room by tonight or you’re grounded for a month.”

Mike’s face abruptly contorted into a smile and he threw his arms around his dad in gratitude. “I know this is hard for you,” Ted spoke, but he fumbled through his words uncomfortably, he loved his family more than he could put into words but he was hardly one to voice that fact, “so I really do appreciate everything you’re doing.”

  
  


\---

Richie scanned the menu for the cheapest thing he could find in the fear of coming across as rude. He wanted the most expensive burger, the one with the double patty, the one with the bacon, cheese, onion rings and lashings of sauce. The one that would probably clog his arteries in a single mouthful.

“Just a hamburger and small fries please,” he said to the waitress when she finally came to take their order. Just as the words had left his mouth, a girl walked past, her tray lined with an entire table’s worth of the burger he really did want and he couldn’t help but stare. 

His stomach rumbled, he cursed it.

Karen was an observant woman, it would be rude to suggest otherwise, so when she saw her nephew looking at that burger like it was perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d laid eyes on, she wasn’t going to let him order a plain hamburger, “hi, excuse me,” she smiled at the waitress, pointing to the table that was now being served, “that burger over there, he’ll have one of those instead.”

Richie opened his mouth to protest but she spoke over him, “and make it a large fries and,” she turned back to him, “do you like strawberry milkshake?” 

He nodded.

“That too then please,” she looked back at the menu, “and I’ll have the salad, hold the dressing, with a bottle of water, still not sparkling.”

Richie raised an eyebrow as he saw her give one last glance over to the other table, “do you _ actually _want that? No one comes to a diner to eat rabbit food out of choice, think my old gerbil probably had more exciting meals than that in its lifetime.”

He failed to mention that the poor thing had only lived a few months as its last _ ‘exciting meal’ _had happened to be half a bar of chocolate which Richie only realised was poisonous to rodents when he found her dead the next morning. Suffice to say, he wasn’t ever trusted with a pet again, his dad wasn’t happy about that one. 

“I’ve got to stay in shape,” she replied but Richie didn’t see that as a suitable argument, everyone deserves a treat once in a while.

“And I can promise you now,” he started, unsure of where he’d finished, “that _ one _ meal will not make the slightest bit of difference, and that’s based on erm, actual science” he pulled a load of nonsense from the back of his mind, “my third year biology textbook, yep that exact quote, _ biiiig letters _, first page.”

“Is that so?” she asked, and both of them knew he’d made the entire thing up as he’d gone along, but she also knew that he was probably right. On any other day, she’d have put up more of a protest but she was tired and, above all, _ hungry _and damn did that burger look good.

“So that’s settled,” he continued and she didn’t protest, “she’ll have the same as me.”

A smirk had worked its way onto the waitresses face, she clearly found amusement in their inability to make a firm decision, but she didn’t mention it, instead opting for a, “good choice if I do say so myself,” before she moved over to clean the table opposite. 

Richie pulled his rucksack from under the table, fumbling around inside until his fingers brushed against a small glass bottle. He set it down on the table as he zipped his bag closed and Karen couldn’t stop herself from inspecting the label:_ Tozier, Richard; Codeine Phosphate 60mg. _

“That’s strong,” was all she could come up with.

“This hurts,” he gestured towards his ribs, smiling weakly.

“I asked them for oxycodone,” he continued, attempting to lighten the situation, as he took note of the look on her face, “to kick-start my lucrative black-market pharmaceutical business, I thought it was a good idea but they didn’t like it quite so much.”

Although his intended foray into drug dealing never quite came to pass, he did sell four codeines to some kid behind the Aladdin for ten dollars, half a packet of wagon wheels and a McDonald's happy meal toy. It wasn’t one of his finer moments, but the biscuits were only a little bit stale and he got a final cinema trip for him and Eddie out of the tenner so he considered it a win.

“Maybe if I throw myself down the stairs I can convince them to prescribe me some morphine,” he joked with a smile on his face, “or go track down my dad, it’d be just as effective.” He said the last part under his breath, more to himself than anyone else but it was still loud enough for his aunt to hear quite clearly.

He saw the pain flash across Karen Wheeler’s eyes in an instant, she recoiled slightly, upset. Her mouth opened as if she were to speak but she couldn’t conjure a single word that felt like a fitting response to his mentioned abuse. 

Richie inwardly cursed himself as the guilt hung over him, he had a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time that, in all fifteen years of his life, he’d never quite managed to shake. He liked to joke about things, make light of the shit hand life had dealt him, it was his way of processing trauma but that often upset people and he fucking _ hated _it. 

He didn’t like seeing the worry in her eyes, he hated knowing that he’d put it there even more.

“Fuck -_ no shit _, ah,” he corrected himself though it was only marginally better, “sorry, I always say the wrong things.”

He looked down at his hands which were rested on the table as he picked at his fingernails. Before he’d taken the time to raise his head once more, another hand had settled on top of his, squeezing gently, “promise me you’ll stop apologising about this,” she said softly, choosing to let the bad language slide this time. Richie thought he’d done a pretty good job of not swearing so far, a damn sight better than usual anyways.

He nodded, noting the tears welling in her eyes, “it’s just,” he sighed, exhausted, “I can either laugh or cry you know? And if that’s the choice I’m given then I’ll laugh about it ‘til the day I day.”

In that moment, and in every one that would follow, there wasn’t a thing in her life that she wouldn’t have traded to take his pain away. Hell, she’d have endured it all herself if the world would have allowed it.

Karen Wheeler had become a new parent again when she least expected it, and if there’s one thing about her that should be respected above all else, it’s that she’d run to the ends of the Earth to protect her children.

“Then you have a strength that I don’t have,” she said and she meant it, she was hardly one to see her own strength. If anything bad happened, she cried, that was how she chose to cope and she saw it as a weakness. Richie didn’t though, to him, having a heart could never make you weak.

_ “Bullshit,” _ he called almost immediately, “you managed _ hour long _ phone conversations with that social services woman, I usually hung up on her after five minutes”

She snorted in her attempt not to laugh, taking her hand from his to cover her face as she threw her head back and laughed properly. It was guttural and almost painful but she still couldn’t stop, it wasn’t even that funny but she couldn’t stop herself. It only took a few moments before her nephew joined her and they continued in unison. Other tables had begun to look around by the time their tears began to fall, but Karen managed to compose herself just enough to force a sentence out, “the sound of her voice was particularly grating really wasn’t it.”

“She was a bitch,” Richie deadpanned, wiping at his cheeks as he tried to catch his breath. 

_ “Yeah she was.” _

_ \--- _

Will had deemed the day to be a success, they’d managed to get Mike’s bedroom clear in record time and his friend had finished the evening mildly irritated rather than a few seconds from having an aneurysm like he’d been earlier in the day. 

He was alone cycling the streets of Hawkins, something which still after all these years - well, only one and a half to be exact - made him mildly uneasy. He didn’t trust the trees, the darkness, the all too familiar rows of houses, he didn’t trust anything once the sun went down. 

Dustin and Lucas had left him, under protest, two blocks back when they turned off down Maple Street to head across to their side of town. They _ always _ offered to stay with him for the whole ride home and he _ always _ point-blank refused, it’s a routine of theirs. He wasn’t going to force them to add an extra twenty minutes to their journey on account of him being too much of a pussy to go home by himself, he wasn’t _ that _selfish.

Despite their clear insistence, he believed they’d most likely be silently praying he’d say no so they didn’t have to trail around in the cold for another half hour, who would want to do that in December?

He wouldn’t have blamed them if they did.

But they weren’t, though he didn’t know that.

A clatter sounded from behind him, metal on metal, harsh and dissonant. His breath caught in his throat, his heart stuttered and all the worst possibilities flooded his mind - _ it’s back _. The base of his neck prickled, anxiety creeping up his spine, but it felt different to Halloween, it wasn’t the same.

He peddled harder, he peddled until his muscles burned, picking up the pace at an alarming rate as he neglected his brakes. 

He raced down the hill like he was indestructible. 

Will Byers, of all people, should have known that wasn’t the case.

As he reached the end of the road, he turned his head just in time to see a cat rummaging in the bins by Timothy Warner’s house fifty yards back. He let out a shaky breath, cursing his faltering nerves as he felt his heart rate begin to slow. 

He cycled faster than necessary for the rest of the distance home, it took him only four minutes when it should have taken him nearly ten. He was still shaken from his early confusion but the raw fear had subsided significantly. 

A warm feeling of safety bubbled up in his chest when Jonathan and his mom’s car came into view, parked on the grass outside. The light from the living room illuminated the driveway - if the dirt track in front of his house could be called that - and the TV cast flickering shadows against the curtains. 

His bike was left in the shed as it always was, and his feet carried him towards the house. 

It was as soon as he opened the door that he knew something was wrong. 

From on the porch, he could see the light, hear the voices on the TV, he watched Jonathan make a cup of tea through the netted curtains in the kitchen window. But as he pushed the front door inwards, the noise stopped, life ceased, the house was dark and silent.

He slammed it shut again.

Noise, laughter, light, _ mom do you want any tea _ , life, safety, _ yes sweetie _, family.

This time he pushed it all the way open, taking a step inside.

Silence.

He felt sick, like someone had just reached right inside his stomach and pulled his insides clean out, empty. He always felt empty these days, like the creature had taken a part of him with it back into the upside down. 

Right now, he didn’t just feel empty, _ he felt hollow. _

The air was too thick, he couldn’t breathe, like he was drowning on dry land. His head pounded and his vision began to blur, _ 1, 2, 3, 4. _ He began to count steadily in his mind, hold for four, out for five, in for six, _ breathe. _

_ God _ breathing should have been so easy but, in that very moment, it felt like the hardest thing anyone had ever asked him to do. He could have cried - it was a miracle that he hadn’t already - he wanted so badly for it all to be over. 

The world began to twist back into focus, slowly then all at once. In many ways, he wished it hadn’t though, now he could see the vines clearly, protruding from every corner of his home - the place he was meant to feel safe.

“Jonathan, help me,” he whispered feebly, he knew it was futile but he was scared and desperate,_ “please.” _

Will knew he was there, perhaps not in this reality, but in one he shared with his brother and that had to account for something. He wanted him, he wanted his mother, Dustin, Lucas, El, Max, he wanted Mike_ . God _, he wished Mike was here, he always knew what to do.

Something wasn’t right which, given the circumstances, seemed so obvious.

But even this dimension,_ the upside down _, was in itself wrong. 

It was equally as awful, but ultimately different.

He remembered the smell vividly, it choked him, forced its way down his throat, up his nose, overwhelmed his senses. It’s mephitic, rotten, like the smell of decaying matter, but it’s worse, it coats every fibre of your being, rests on your tongue and seeps into every pore.

Will didn’t know what death tasted like but that left little to the imagination.

Hopeless, inevitable.

This was different.

Like popcorn and candy floss and something more sinister.

Someone laughed, out there in the dark.

_ His eyes shot open. _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed, sorry it's a bit of a filler
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed, give me your opinions, your critiques, your predictions
> 
> it really does push me to write more


	6. the world is cruel to kind souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Richie had thought that, if he had wanted to, there’d be no better time in his life than the present to embark on his descent into drug abuse and alcoholism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo they're meeting 
> 
> enjoy!

“Fuck me,” and it was with those two words, that Mike knew this introduction was going to be almost as bad as he was expecting it to be,  _ “auntie did you clone us?” _

Though, in actuality, he’d later deem it to be worse.

Richie Tozier spent half of his existence attempting to shock the world, so he was hardly expecting the world to shock him back with quite so much vigour. He was stood in the hallway of the Wheeler residence, eyes wide and mouth agape, having only crossed the threshold ten seconds prior. 

Ted Wheeler cleared his throat. He decided that less than a minute after meeting his nephew was probably not the time to reprimand him, yet he wanted to make it clear that language like that wouldn’t be tolerated in his household. 

But Richie didn’t didn’t even notice because he was too busy staring at his cousin down the hall, “because if you did that’s like  _ seven levels of illegal _ ,” and he turned to look at her, flashing an approving sort of grin, “but I also kind of respect that.”

Richie took a moment to look, to  _ really _ look, hell  _ to scrutinise _ , the dark haired boy who was stood not ten feet in front of him, scowl plastered firmly onto his face as if someone had just told him they’d run over the family dog. 

They looked disturbingly similar, that much was blatantly obvious, but the closer he looked the more apparent the differences became. Mike’s eyes were set a little farther apart, his cheekbones higher, and he had a splattering of freckles across his nose which Richie’s lacked. He also appeared, to Richie’s optimistic but ultimately correct point of view, to be at least two inches shorter which left him more smug than he’d likely admit.

Oh, and perhaps the most obvious point he could make: Mike Wheeler clearly wasn’t as blind as a bat.

Richie’s attention turned to the mirror to his right, regarding his own reflection before turning back to his cousin again, this motion was repeated thrice more before he finally decided to speak, “ _ jesus, _ does that mean I look like Kermit the Frog too?”

It was at that precise moment, at eight-fifty-five on a Saturday evening, that all of Will’s hard work was hastily undone as Mike’s eye twitch returned with impressive style. At first Richie thought he was having a stroke but he was in plain view of his auntie and as she didn’t seem overly worried about the development, he decided that it mustn’t have been a rare occurrence.

Nancy gave herself credit for not having laughed up to that point, though she’d had to make an active effort not to, but this time her self-control failed her. The snort was promptly followed up by a shrill screech as her brother sent a rogue elbow flying straight between her ribs. And if the left hand corner of Ted Wheeler’s mouth upturned - just a fraction, so much so that he barely even noticed himself - he’d never have admitted it if questioned. 

“Erm right,” his aunt jumped in, clearly not best pleased about his comment, “how about we get your stuff upstairs.”

He knew that mothers were supposed to think their children were the most beautiful things in the world - it was a strange facet of motherhood Richie didn’t think he’d ever understand as he personally thought babies were really fucking ugly - but surely she saw the resemblance.

If she didn’t, she was either in denial or she’d never seen the muppets. 

“Guess I should be grateful that they can’t clone bad taste then,” Mike shot back viciously, his tone not quite matching the note of humour that danced around Richie’s every word. He couldn’t really argue back in this instance, he’d as good as challenged Mike to say it, though he thought he might have kept his cool a little longer.

“ _ Michael _ ,” Karen whispered sharply, giving him a look so stern, Richie thought it would have sent Rambo running for the hills. 

“S’alright auntie,” he looked down at his Hawaiian shirt - blues, pinks and yellows intertwining to form an equally hideous pattern - and laughed loudly, turning to his cousin “yeah I’ll give you that one.”

“You’d be deluded if you hadn’t,” Mike returned promptly, a little harsher than Richie thought could be considered polite.

“A touch rude.”

“You did just call me a muppet.”

That was fair.

“The truth hurts Michael.”

Ted Wheeler cleared his throat before the conversation could descend much further into disarray, handing the larger of the two cases to his son, “show your cousin to his new room,” he instructed, giving both boys a small smile and a nod as they trailed towards the stairs. 

The rest of the family returned to what they’d been doing before his arrival: Nancy began to dial her boyfriends number on the home phone to finish the conversation they’d been in the middle of and Karen followed her husband into the kitchen in need of a well-deserved glass of wine. 

The codeine had begun to wear off about halfway along the interstate highway - somewhere between junction forty-eight and junction fifty-three, if he was making a rough estimate - and he’d be correct in saying that now the drugs were doing absolutely  _ fuck all _ . It hurt when he got out of the car, it hurt when opened the front door and it  _ hurt  _ now he was attempting to carry one of his bags up the stairs. He paused halfway, leaning against the wall momentarily as his face contorted in pain.

“Are you alright?” his cousin had stopped a few paces ahead, looking slightly unsure of himself.

“As good as anyone could be with four cracked ribs, a broken nose and a slowly depleting will to live,” he had intended it to sound at least a little more lighthearted that it did, but he was exhausted and his tolerance for small talk was at an all time low.

“Um,” Mike mumbled some half-hearted apologies and fell back a few steps, reaching out to take the other bag, “here.”

Richie handed it to him gladly, wincing as he passed it over but he offered the other boy a smile which he attempted to return. He didn’t think you could call the few millimetres Mike’s mouth moved by a smile, but the thought was there and, ultimately, he was just grateful that he’d offered to take the case.

The walls of Richie’s new bedroom were blue; not the kind of blue that felt cold and hostile like the shade his mother had painted nearly every wall in their house, but the kind of blue that reminded him of Bill’s bedroom at home, and every sleepover they’d ever had there, which he thought was arguably worse. He’d been gone less than two days when the first wave of grief surged inside his chest and it was all brought on by a questionable shade of blue paint,  _ fucking hell _ he was getting soft.

He needed to have a word with himself.

The room had been stripped bare. The only thing remaining, that gave the slightest hint anyone lived there, was the Star Wars duvet cover Mike had unwillingly surrendered earlier that morning.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, staring at the ground. He wasn’t being rude, but Richie had never been comfortable with sincerity, he made crass jokes and never took a thing life threw at him seriously because that was so much easier for him. 

Mike hunted for something civil to say but his brain seemed to betray him and it settled on, “yeah well, don’t take anything.”

Richie’s gaze scanned the room again, just to check if a brand new television or a stack of cash - or literally  _ anything  _ that was worth more than the old sheets - had appeared in the last three seconds that had happened to slip his attention.

None had, to clarify.

“What am I going to steal?” he snorted, almost offended that he’d even said that, “your dignity?” his left eyebrow was raised, “well I hate to break it to you but you’re not getting that back anytime soon.”

Mike seethed and Richie laughed but it didn’t last long.

He went to sit down on the edge of the bed and a fire ignited in his bones. More specifically, his ribs. He hissed audibly, tears pricking at his eyes and he tried to breathe through the pain, “you don’t happen to know where I can find the local drug dealers number do you?”

Richie reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a handful of miscellaneous items, “do you think he’d sell us some morphine for two dollars, twenty-three cents, a piece of old chewing gum and -  _ fuck  _ I don’t even know what that is.” He prodded the green sticky blob that had attached itself to one of the quarters, “ _ urgh, _ ” he pulled his finger back sharply, the half-chewed sweet moving with it. Violently, he shook his hand and it took a few good seconds until the sweet finally broke free, soaring across the room until eventually came to a halt, smack-bang in the centre of his cousin’s forehead.

“Calm down Kermit, I’m joking.”

He was. 

Joking that is, because Mike certainly wasn't calm.

Though Richie had thought that, if he had wanted to, there’d be no better time in his life than the present to embark on his descent into drug abuse and alcoholism. 

Mike was nearly shaking.

Richie sniffed his finger.

“Ohhhh,” he exclaimed, realisation dawning, “it’s that toxic waste from last Tuesday, I forgot about that,” and with that proclamation, he got back up from where he was sitting - moving slowly enough that the pain was just about bearable - and pulled the sweet from straight between his cousin’s eyes, popping it in his mouth with a smile.

Mike shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, opening his mouth in the hope that words would come to him but it was to no avail. Instead, he just turned on his heel and walked out the door because he knew that, once he did finally find the words, he’d regret ever saying them. Not because he didn’t think them, but because he’d be grounded within an inch of his life when his mother would inevitably find out what he’d said. 

Richie lowered himself back onto the bed, letting a sigh escape his lips as he sprawled out across the mattress lazily, arming dangling off the sides at strange angles. He lay like that, quite uncomfortable, until the blood had run to his head and he feared if he hadn’t moved, he may have passed out. 

He’d already fucked it, this was becoming a reoccurring theme on his part.

He hardly needed to add a five hundred dollar ambulance bill into the mix. Not that a mild stupidity-induced fainting episode warranted a trip to A&E, but he felt that his Auntie Karen had the kind of parental anxiety that would land him in the hospital with a paper-cut. 

He’d only arrived at his new home less than twenty minutes ago and he could say, with ninety-nine percent certainty, that his cousin already hated him. 

It was the eye twitch that gave it away.

He doesn’t mean for these things to happen,  _ he really doesn’t.  _ He just starts speaking and words force their way out and he doesn't want them to be the wrong words but they almost always are. 

In seventeen minutes he’d already managed to accuse his auntie of selling his DNA illegally, liken his cousin to one of the muppets and then convince him he was one bad day away from turning to opiates as a coping mechanism. 

He lay there for a few moments longer, only moving because he hadn’t had the common sense to get his pills from his bag before he laid down, something which he quickly came to regret. He was shaking three pills into his hand - he was only meant to take two but his ribs hurt and he didn’t care about these things as much as he should - when he heard a knock at the door.

_ “Come in, _ ” he shouted through the wall, screwing the cap back on the bottle. He set the pills down on the bedside table as the door began to open, revealing a rather uncomfortable looking Mike Wheeler. 

The boy held a glass of water in one hand - which was  _ exactly  _ what Richie needed in that moment - and a rapidly defrosting bag of peas in the other, “erm, thought these might help.”

Mike looked like he wanted to be  _ anywhere  _ but there and Richie hardly blamed him, but he graciously accepted his offerings regardless and knocked back the pills with a mouthful of water, “thanks,” he said, smiling, “did Auntie Karen rope you into that by any chance?”

Mike felt slightly disappointed that his cousin had assumed he’d acted under duress, when in actuality he’d brought them up of his own volition. But he decided not to mention it, instead shrugging and saying, “yeah, something like that,” in response to Richie’s question.

  
  


\---

Jonathan Byers was the kind of light-hearted optimist who didn’t think there was much in this world that couldn’t be solved with a good cup of tea. Sadly, the creature that plagued his brother’s nightmares was not from this world, or this reality at least; not that it stopped him from offering though. 

It had started when he was making a pot of tea that evening, “mom, do you want any,” he’d yelled across the kitchen as he set the kettle to boil on the stove.

A muffled, “yes sweetie,” was sent back in return, only just audible over the noise of the TV she was sitting in front of. He was reaching for the teabags in the top cupboard when it began - he never understood why his mother kept them there because she was a good two inches short of a cup of tea did she ever want to make one herself.

It started off as a whimper. 

He didn’t hear it at first, not over the noise of everything else but then it morphed into something louder - more abrasive - and somewhere along the line the screaming had started. Jonathan was already out the kitchen door when the spoon he was holding hit the floor with a harsh clatter, splattering milk across the lino. He slowed to a stop once he reached Will’s room - his mother appearing behind him with impressive speed - and he opened the door gently, as to not wake him, but his heart still broke at the sight he saw.

Will was writhing, shaking,  _ terrified _ , hair slick to his forehead as tears began to mix with the layer of sweat that clung to his skin. Joyce swiftly moved to settle on the bed beside him, a hand held to his cheek in comfort, while Jonathan had taken his brother’s hand, squeezing gently to show him he was there. 

Will told him once - at three in the morning when their mother was away, when the sweat and the deafening fear of a nightmare,  _ night terror _ , still clung to every cell of his body - that he knew when Jonathan was there with him, he felt him take his hand. So every nightmare, every scream, every tremble, every  _ breath  _ out of place Will made when he was asleep, his brother was there in an instant, holding his hand.

And every single time it helped, it calmed him.

Except this time. 

If anything, Jonathan thought he screamed more.

His mother began to cry and, if he wasn’t trying to hold himself together for the both of them, he couldn’t promise he wouldn’t have joined her. 

He’s hardly the kind of person who would charge headfirst into confrontation armed with nothing but a few crazed words and the courage to take on the world whereas his mother would do that every Sunday afternoon if someone gave her a fitting excuse.

He’d sooner make you a cup of tea and give you a shoulder to cry on.

Will let out one final shaky scream, tensing in his mother’s arms, before his eyes shot open and his breathing slowed. His eyes flitted around aimlessly, like the animals in one of those nature programs Will liked so much, right before it’s death, before the predator attacked. 

Jonathan found the energy to push that thought as far away as his mind permitted. 

Will didn’t say anything, he didn’t think he could at this point, instead opting to wrap one arm round his mom’s waist, the other still holding Jonathan’s hand, as he pulled his body into their laps. They stayed like that for a while - or at least it felt like a while, it was probably closer to ten minutes - before Joyce’s eyes began to close against their will and Jonathan told her to go to bed. He’d tucked Will under the sheets, like he had done for years when he was younger, and only once he’d folded every edge of the sheets under the mattress could he return to the kitchen. 

Will still held the childhood naivety that derived a certain comfort from being wrapped in his duvet, that convinced him it was some kind of impenetrable shield, told him it would keep him safe. It was all just a fallacy, he knew that much from experience, but it didn’t stop him from feeling just that little bit safer. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Jonathan set the cup of tea on Will’s bedside table upon his return, not unaware of the fact that his brother wouldn’t look him in the eye. He knew Will was going to lie to him, but he also knew the truth would follow not long after - it was how these situations always worked. 

The lie came seconds later, “just a nightmare,” he said and even  _ he  _ didn’t sound convinced. Jonathan knew that he lied not because he didn’t trust him, but because he thought it would protect him. 

Will Byers was just a boy trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, terrified that he’d drop it and hurt someone else.

“ _ Will _ ,” he said softly and that was all it ever took.

He sat there for a few seconds - as worried as he always was, hiding it as he always did - waiting for his brother to open up to him about what had plagued his dreams. Will reached out for the mug, wrapping his fingers around it and bringing it close to his chest for warmth, “was just a nightmare,” he repeated again, “I think. I - I don’t know. I don’t even remember going to bed, _ I didn’t even know I was asleep.” _

The last part was whispered. 

Will had always been so good at hiding his emotions but he spared his brother that facade, the fear was evident on his face, etched across every inch of his skin and  _ god  _ it made Jonathan sick to his stomach. 

“With the upside down I know, I  _ always  _ know,” he tried to explain himself and Jonathan remained quiet, “I know when I’m there and when I’m not, but this - this, it was different,” he paused, thoughtful but melancholy, “I can’t even work out which point tonight all this took over from reality.”

“Wait,” Jonathan’s brow creased as he tried to make sense of the information he was being handed, “so it wasn’t the upside down?”

He’d wanted so badly for this just to be another nightmare, for them to drink a cup of tea and make stupid jokes until Will’s hands stopped shaking. He’d known from the moment he burst through the door that wasn’t going to be the case, but this was worse than he’d expected.

“Yes,” Will said though he could tell from his tone of voice that he wasn’t sure of what he was saying, “but also no.”

Jonathan, not entirely certain of what he meant, remained quiet in the hope that Will would feel compelled to fill the silence. Getting him to open up was a harder task than most would expect, but it was one Jonathan had mastered over the years. 

“It was, it  _ looked  _ like it,” he said and the little crease between his brows made an appearance, the one that only revealed itself when he was worried or in deep thought, “but I don’t think it was, not really.”

That statement left Jonathan even more confused than the previous but it only made the anxiety that had settled at the pit of his stomach worse. It had been a month since Will’s last nightmare and the optimist in him had hoped that, after finally forcing the creature from his body, all would now be well. 

But the world was cruel to kind souls, he should have known that. 

Will brought the mug to his mouth with shaking hands, taking a small sip, “it’s like when mom buys that rip-off nutella, it looks the same but it doesn’t taste the same, it doesn’t smell the same.”

He smiled meekly, aware it wasn’t the best analogy but his exhausted mind could hardly spare the energy to conjure something more accurate. He placed the mug back down on the bedside table, pulling his duvet tighter around his body as a chill danced across his skin. 

“What was it like?” Jonathan asked the question he wished he didn’t have to. 

“It smelt like the carnival,” Will knew he sounded half mad, and honestly he sometimes wondered if he really was, but that was the only way he could describe it, “but it also smelt like death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i really hope that wasn't a let down i know it was short sorry
> 
> but, as always, give me your opinions and criticism 
> 
> love you all

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked, tell me what you guys think.


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